


The Fourteen Days of the Twenty-Four Hour News

by missmollyetc



Category: Twinkie Squad - Gordon Korman
Genre: Gen, Yuletide 2008, abuse of snack foods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 12:58:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doug Fairchild in Washington D.C. is to everyday life what a 10-speed hand mixer turned on high is to powdered sugar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fourteen Days of the Twenty-Four Hour News

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookchan/gifts).



> Thank you Gordon Korman. I promise to return your characters only slightly more rumpled than when they first came into my possession.

Well, this Secret Service guy was shorter than the last one. When he'd come through the door to go over security perimeters, or whatever they were called this week, the bristly top of his blond head had come up to Doug's chest, and Commando could tell the new guy wasn't appreciating what was clearly a developing muscle cramp in his neck. Being the only short guy in the room was probably tough on him. He only came up to Commando's shoulder after all.

"Where's Jim? I liked Jim," Doug asked, carefully not turning his head to look behind him.

"He's been reassigned to field work," the new guy said.

"I'm sure the dollar bill's never been safer," Doug said.

Commando leaned back against the kitchen table, and rolled his eyes. He shrugged an apology in the new guy's direction. He had a lot of sympathy for the guys who had to follow Chrissie Taylor around Washington D.C.. She went through security details like some women went through flip flops, and it wasn't even that she was mean, or malicious, or even careless. Chrissie just had a lot of…energy. She was very enthusiastic. In her and Doug's actor's studio, she got a lot of character roles that involved acrobatics. Doug, of course, was the guy she did handstands off of. He made her dad absolutely rigid with fatherly outrage, and President Taylor was not a man easily rattled out of his good humor.

In the entryway, the visible half of Doug bent double towards the hall mirror and carefully smoothed down whatever imaginary hairs had the gall to cross the Rubicon of Doug's Part. Secret Service propped up the opposite wall, shifting from one foot to the other. Apparently, even the most special of special agents weren't immune to Doug's ability to stretch a moment to the fraying point. Commando really would've figured they'd have put that in the cadet handbook by now. The Fairchilds should've had their own _section._

"I think you've subdued the rebellion, man," he said, grinning.

Doug leaned just far enough into the kitchen to raise one eyebrow and then return to study his reflection in the mirror. He'd dyed the tips of his blond hair purple this month, in honor of his upper level theater course on Shakespeare's Supernatural Characters. Doug'd discovered Manic Panic during their freshman year of undergrad, and never looked back. Actor's Studio students had a little more leeway than Poli-Sci graduate programs. Commando eyed his own plain black bangs, and shrugged. He'd gotten used to the dress code after awhile. The internships Georgetown offered were worth the effort it took to stay Beltway Presentable.

"This," Doug announced, "will be my greatest role yet, Commando. Perfection has its own time schedule."

The Secret Service man took a deep breath and appeared to make a conscious decision to slouch. Commando grinned. Most people called him Armando these days, some of them even managed to the roll that 'r' he himself never had the energy to use. Everybody of course, except for Doug, whose perfectly accented 'Commando' hadn't changed since the summer of their sophomore year in high school following an uncomfortable attempt to switch to 'Comm.' He supposed it kept him honest. How could he ever be anyone but himself, when Doug Fairchild: Budding Man of a Thousand Faces made sure he never forgot?

He tugged on the small gold hoop in his ear, and scratched his neck. "I don't think the president's daughter has time to wait until Perfection shows its mug, is all I'm saying."

Doug huffed, and smudged the eyeliner underneath his eyes with his pinkie. "Chrissie and I have an understanding."

Of course they did. Doug played The World's Most Inappropriate Presidential Boyfriend at any and all officially photographed parties, and Chrissie helped him pass Theater Arts without loss of life, limb, or photogenic qualities. Commando checked his watch. The secret service had appeared around six to do their preliminary sweep of the apartment, and it was half past seven now… He sighed. Chrissie was gonna be pissed, but after a year in the same program, Commando would have thought she'd figure out how to work around Doug's conception of time. The state dinner was supposed to start at eight thirty, according to the invitation Doug'd pinned by magnet to their refrigerator.

"Doug…" Commando held up his watch, tapping the glass face with his finger.

Doug sighed. He straightened his skinny purple tie, and smoothed the lapels of his black suit coat. He stretched his back, both hands clasped at his waist. The tip of his nose almost brushed the ceiling of their crappy apartment. He righted himself and spread his arms.

Commando and the Secret Service man stood up as well. Commando laughed. "Get the hell over to the party," he said. "I've got a hot date with _The Politics of Cyberspace_."

"I'll make sure to check the doorknob for socks when I get back," Doug said.

By the time Commando'd made it back to the couch, he could hear Doug and the new guy peeling out onto the street as fast as Doug's Toyota Corolla could take them.

 

***

 

_Tripp fripp_

At seven o'clock, Commando's alarm clock made a satisfying squawking noise underneath his palm instead of the deafening beeps it usually emitted. He sighed heavily, and bunched his pillow more firmly under his head.

_Thwap rustle._

Commando sniffed, rubbing his face against his pillow.

_Thwap_

He turned over in bed, dragging his quilt up over his head. He smushed his face into the sleeve of his sleep shirt.

"G'way," he mumbled.

_Click! Click! Click! Fripple thwap!_

A rustling noise erupted somewhere beyond his toes. Commando kicked out against his quilt and groaned.

"It's nothing! Go back to sleep," Doug said.

_Tripp fripp_

Oh God. That was the sound of Doug, peering through Commando's blinds.

"It's Monday," Commando said, clearly. He wanted Doug to fully understand the implications of whatever he was doing in Commando's half of their apartment.

"Yes," Doug said.

He didn't sound high, but Commando was too tired to be absolutely certain. Sometimes Chrissie and Doug ditched her detail and smoked up. Commando pulled his blanket off his face, but kept his eyes screwed tightly shut. Last time, Doug had wound up crashing on the floor of Commando's bedroom and left the destroyed remains of an entire bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in between the mattresses. He'd never explained the chips thing, either.

"Fuck," Commando said.

"Actually, I was thinking…since your classes are scheduled for Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I feel—and my sister agrees, so you've got the head of oncology to answer to as well—you should take this opportunity to catch up on your rest."

Commando whimpered. He known when he'd gone to bed at three in the morning and Doug hadn't come back, there'd be hell to pay later on, but it hadn't really occurred to him to lock his bedroom door on it. Commando's stomach rumbled a little, but he couldn't tell if it was hunger, or fear.

"What are you doing?" he asked, more just to have it on record once more that the Ways of Doug Fairchild were not the Ways of Normal People.

"Closing your blinds," Doug replied calmly. "Studies have shown that the human body can only achieve optimal relaxation while immersed in total darkness."

Commando slapped both hands to his face and rubbed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. Doug, appropriately enough, made another rustling sound, like he was turning a page.

"Jesus, Doug, did you bring your clipboard into my room?" Commando asked, whipping his hands off his face.

He sat up quickly, leaning his weight forward on his knees. His plaid pajama pants bunched up around his thighs. Doug was standing at the foot of his bed, both hands braced on a red plastic clipboard stuffed full of lined paper. Commando's stomach turned over and flopped. The clipboard had shown up a week after they'd burned his binder in middle school, after he'd narrowly escaped the specialty school and the entire Twinkie Squad'd narrowly escaped jail time. It'd been Doug's constant companion throughout high school, filled with course descriptions, class lists, addresses, hair styles…anything and everything Doug thought might be interesting. No one, not his parents, not Commando's own dad, not even _Commando_ had been able to get it away from him. Doug Fairchild had discovered a need to remake himself minus Pefkakia, and if he couldn't be a senator like his brother, or a doctor like his sister, or a basketball player like Commando, he'd decided to become all of them at once, on stage and as needed. These days, it came out when Doug needed a prop, something to do with his hands.

Commando looked around his darkened bedroom. Light flashed around the edges of his blinds. He narrowed his eyes.

"Doug…"

Doug frowned, and cleared his throat. "It's really nothing to worry about," he said.

Commando looked at his blinds again. The last time Doug'd taken upon himself to bother with his sleep patterns, there'd been protesters outside their dorm. Specifically, outside their dorm_room_, because Doug had also taken it upon himself to create Darian University's Inaugural Freshman Orientation Cultural Exchange and somehow, through no doubt a combination of obliviousness and probing questions, sparked a under/upperclassmen war.

The siege had lasted three days. After that, thanks to Ambassador Fairchild's actual diplomacy, the university had waived their first year housing requirement and he and Doug had moved into an apartment anonymously close to the school. Commando looked around his room. They'd never get the deposit back if they broke their lease.

"Okay, Fairchild," he said. "Spill."

Doug lifted his chin, and tried to stare him down. Commando cocked his head to the side and crossed his arms. Doug lifted his eyebrow. Commando tapped his fingers on his biceps.

Doug heaved a sigh. He lowered his head, smacking his clipboard on his thigh, and waving his arms.

"You're not going to like it," he said.

He walked to the farthest window, the one half obscured by the free-standing clothes hanger, and pulled the cord on the blinds.

The light was blinding.

_Click! Click! Click! Click Click Click click!click!click!click!click!cl—"_

"Okay, oh my God, okay!" Commando yelled, throwing one arm up, hand outstretched in the air in front of his face.

"You just had to have the ground floor level," Doug said.

He heard Doug drop the binds again, and let his arm fall into his lap. He gulped for air, and shook his head to clear the stars from his eyes.

"Were those _cameras?_" he yelled.

Doug nodded. Commando felt his heart rate thump into overdrive, kicking a fit every other beat and rattling against his rib cage.

"But…" he waved his hands. "Why…do I want to know? Or is this something I should have no knowledge of when our parents call?"

Doug unclipped a folded newspaper and threw it onto the bed. He tossed his clipboard onto Commando's already cluttered desk and tucked his hands under his opposite arms. He hunched his shoulders.

Commando bit his lips together, hard, and dragged the newspaper into his lap. The paper was folded in half, with the splash picture of two people partially covered in a thick, black bar. Unfortunately, the bar didn't cover the close up of the faces of the people pictured.

"Doug?" Commando asked.

"Yes?"

"Is that you and Chrissie…mooning the Reflecting Pool?"

Doug paused. "Yes?"

"From the lap of Abraham Lincoln?"

"We might have."

"In the Lincoln Memorial?"

"Okay, so we got a little high."

Commando groaned, and flopped backwards onto his bed.

 

***

 

The last two hours of knocking on the door was really pretty annoying. Commando leaned over his computer screen and hit play on his downloaded podcast.

"Did _The Drudge Report_ just call me an 'ass bandit?'" Doug asked without looking up from his laptop.

"Uh huh," Commando said. "_The Times_ misspelled my name again, too."

He gripped his own laptop with one hand, reaching over to the coffee table for his half-empty beer. They were Day Four into Ass Gate 2008, and the reporters were still hovering outside their apartment. Thankfully, Commando's professors were sensible and professional and too busy laughing to care that he was abusing his online lecture podcast privileges to the maximum. Academic hell beat paparazzi ambush any day, and he could say that from experience, since Day Two had included the part where he'd taken the trash out that afternoon—fully dressed in his bathrobe and pajamas!—and been declared in the evening edition of _The New York Post_ as "Chrissie's Boy Toy's Secret Lover."

"Oh, hey, remember Gerald?" Doug asked.

"Um, the guy from the squad? The young one?" Commando looked up from Dobrinsky's notes on Compartmentalization in Lobbying.

Doug nodded. "Yeah. He found my e-mail from the high school alumni. Apparently, he's at MIT now, studying cyber-bioethics. Wants to know if it's really me, or if it's some other guy named Doug Fairchild."

"Oh, I don't think there could _ever_ be another Doug Fairchild."

Doug beamed. "That's what he said!"

Commando snorted, and went back to his studying.

 

***

 

On Day Six, when the Chronicle dug up Doug's high school run as 'The Streaking King' and Commando's term as 'The Guy Running After the Streaking King with Clothes,' they ran out of beer and were forced to switch to soda and chips with onion dip. They celebrated the discovery of an unopened packet of microwave popcorn by doing shots of Sierra Mist mixed with Ginger Ale.

"How long does your dad say we have to stay inside?" Commando asked.

Doug took another shot, licking salt from his wrist. "Mom said something about the next election."

"I'm not sure I can fit my finals schedule into that. And Dad was expecting both of us for New Year's Eve. By the way, he thinks this is the best prank ever."

Doug nodded. Commando looked over at their firmly shut-and-covered-in-blankets back window and sighed.

"How's Chrissie?" he asked.

"Her father's contemplating finishing school, as of last report."

 

***

 

This year, Yolanda had ditched her red up-do with glued in tiara for a sharp blonde bob, pencil skirts, and stiletto pumps. She and Doug still e-mailed occasionally, but Commando hadn't spoken to her since she'd seen "His Girl Friday" in a Grant Retrospective and hooked up with the high school newspaper crowd.

She looked directly into the camera and smiled. "This is Yack with Yolanda on E!News and have _I_ got an exclusive for _you_…

 

***

 

Commando picked up the stick of brown grease paint and marked a streak next to the nine others on the wall above the couch. Then, he threw the stick at the TV.

"Okay, that's…that's…we haven't even _talked_ to him since he left for boot camp on graduation!"

Doug nodded, and passed Commando the popcorn. On _Hardball with Chris Matthews_, Dave, the world's angriest animal lover, jabbed at the reporter with his pen and yammered on about the psychology of the individual and the effects of living in a fishbowl had on the human mental state.

"This is a cry for help," he insisted. "I've been in combat situations all over the world, and I've learned to recognize the signs. As an Army trained psychologist, my considered opinion—"

"Can kiss my ass," Commando said, throwing a handful of popcorn at the screen.

"Now, I've missed what he said!" Doug exclaimed.

Commando grit his teeth. "You know, sometimes I think you do these things just to get a rise out of me."

Doug dumped the popcorn bowl over Commando's head, and stalked off to his bedroom.

 

***

 

Commando knocked on Doug's open door the next morning, and stuck his head over the threshold.

"Um, Anita and Ric just called?" he said to the pile of tangled sheets and covers on Doug's California king-sized bed.

At six foot six, nothing else let Doug sleep with all his body parts on the mattress. It just fit the bedroom, with room left over for a closet and a nightstand.

"What did they say?"

Doug loved Anita and Ric. Hell, Commando loved Anita and Ric. They managed to run an entire online cuisine and travel company on the strength of Anita's ability to find great food and Ric's willingness to jump off whatever cliff Anita pointed out to him.

"Well, Anita's still too polite to call you an idiot to your face, but Ric can't stop laughing so…I'd say results are mixed," Commando said, stepping into the room.

He picked his way through the neatly ordered stacks of scripts, textbooks, and magazines dotting Doug's floor and sat down on the corner of the bed.

"I thought they were backpacking through Europe again," Doug said, wriggling his body until he faced Commando.

"They are," Commando said. "Only Anita insisted they stop in Barcelona so that she could show him how real ceviche is made, and the tapas bar had a television with cable."

"I am _international_ news?" Doug sat up, his striped sheet wrapped around his head.

"It was cable!"

Doug pulled his sheet down over his face.

 

***

Really, when he thought over the last decade of his life, it hadn't been a bad run. At the very least, he could say he'd never found life boring, and it wasn't like Doug had mooned a national treasure while atop another national monument while high on weed, perched next to the president's rebellious daughter in order to hurt anybody. Doug Fairchild created mayhem purely as the afterthought of a spark that always seemed like a good idea while he was in the moment. When he thought about it, Commando really couldn't bring himself to hate his best friend for something he couldn't even control.

On Day Thirteen, Commando fell asleep on the couch watching the ticker tape on CNN, while Doug composed epic poetry to Chrissie over the phone so that she wouldn't go on Barbara Walters like her dad wanted and claim she'd been led astray by evil influences.

 

***

 

On the morning of Day Fourteen, a Midwest politician made the right turn down the wrong alley and got his picture taken with a transgendered hooker named Philippa. Suddenly, instead of the omnipresent rustling and bustling and occasional catcalling outside their windows, a blissful silence enveloped the apartment.

Commando faced the front door, and glanced over his shoulder to where Doug towered behind him. "Are you sure your dad said it was okay to leave?" he asked.

Doug nodded. "He said Congressman Sheldon threw a Lil' Smokie Barbeque set at the reporters on his lawn. They aren't going to leave that guy alone for years."

Commando reached out and gripped the doorknob. He swallowed. "Okay, on three, one…two…three!"

He twisted the knob and yanked hard enough to push him back into Doug's chest. The door opened and fresh, morning light pulled in.

Commando took a cautious step towards the door. No one shoved their way past the threshold into the apartment. The only thing coming in was cold air. He let go of the doorknob.

"Well?" he asked.

"Can't hurt, can it?" Doug asked.

Commando nodded. Slowly, he stepped outside onto the walkway, with Doug following behind him. He heard the door shut behind them.

Commando took a deep breath, and looked up and down the empty street. Doug leaned on his back, and rubbed his forehead on Commando's shoulder.

"All right," he said. "So…"

"It's Monday," Commando said.

He felt Doug nod. "You don't have school," Doug said.

"And you never go to your classes anyway."

Doug chuckled. He straightened up and moved past Commando, down one of the three steps to the street.

"What now?" he asked.

Commando stretched his arms over his head, working the kinks out of his back. He dropped his arms back down, and grinned.

"Coffee?" he suggested.

"Sounds good," Doug said. "I'll buy."


End file.
